


sentiment is a chemical defect

by Sanna_Black_Slytherin



Series: The Other 51 [31]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Asexual Sherlock, Asexual Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Dorks in Love, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Happy Ending, Love Confessions, M/M, Mycroft Holmes Being Annoying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-24
Updated: 2017-01-24
Packaged: 2018-09-19 16:43:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9450761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sanna_Black_Slytherin/pseuds/Sanna_Black_Slytherin
Summary: Prompt:Sherlock and John fighting because Sherlock has been an arsehole and ignored someone’s feelings again, and John shouting “OF COURSE YOU WOULDN’T UNDERSTAND, YOU HAVE NEVER BEEN IN LOVE!” And Sherlock just taking a step back, clenching his jaw and looking so inexplicably sad…





	

**Author's Note:**

> Again, under the >5k limit but oh well. I rather like the way it turned out.

_“If you were dying, if you'd been murdered—in your very last few seconds, what would you say?"_

_"Goodbye, John."_

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It was simply another case. Childishly simple by Sherlock's standards, even. Husband is unfaithful, wife murders husband, wife is consumed by guilt, wife commits suicide. All this, Sherlock had deduced immediately upon arriving at the crime scene, announcing with irritation that it was disappointing and really, Lestrade could have at least made an effort to make it interesting.

Of course, there waited another challenge: the family of the deceased. Two daughters, one comforting the other, stood on the edge of the crime scene.

"And you didn't suspect a thing?" Lestrade was ascertaining for the third time. Sherlock scoffed.

One of the daughters shook her head. "No," she sobbed, "we didn't even know there was a rift between them. They never spoke of it."

Sherlock snorted, getting their attention. "Of course you wouldn't," he sneered. "Love blinds people to the true nature of their loved ones. If you weren't so consumed by it, you would have known that their relationship was deteriorating. He was keeping his phone with him, often fiddling with it, whereas she was prone to leaving hers all over the place. He had visible hickeys, but none bearing her teeth marks. She had taken up smoking, which he hated but hadn't noticed, which implies that their relationship was no longer intimate. Furthermore—"

" _How dare you_ ," one of the daughters hissed, "speak that way of our parents."

Sherlock shrugged. "For some reason, people tend to find the truth disconcerting."

John bristled but didn't speak up, knowing that it was the last place to be having this argument. Lestrade simply signed. "Ignore him," he advised the daughters, who nodded; they left, though not before glaring fiercely in Sherlock's direction.

John waited until they were back at Baker Street before twirling on Sherlock furiously. "Did you pay any heed to their feelings when you let your mouth run rampant?"

"I don't understand why they don't realize that—"

"Of course you wouldn't understand! You've never been in love!" John retorted, voice full of anger.

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, John wished he could take them back, but it would be as futile as arguing against Sherlock.

Sherlock took a step back, clenching his jaw. He looked inexplicably sad before his expression closed off, becoming reclusive. John had seen him do this to virtually every person he encounters, but Sherlock has never tried it on John.

Until now.

John searched Sherlock's fact for any hint of what could have triggered this reaction. What on Earth could have—

_Oh._

Something suddenly clicked on John's brain. Now that he became aware of it, he couldn't understand how he had possibly missed it before. All those nights, running through London streets, chasing criminals like there was no tomorrow. All those restaurants Sherlock has invited him to, even though he didn't touch the food, simply because John said he was hungry. All those times Sherlock apologized, or begged, or changed his mind, because he knew that it was something John wanted, even though John had never seen him do it with any people, not even Mycroft. Every smile Sherlock had given him flashed behind his eyes.

All these times people assumed they were a couple, and Sherlock, arrogant, clever Sherlock—who never misses a chance to correct anyone—remained suspiciously silent. In hindsight, that should definitely have been a warning bell.

"Sherlock—" John began, then halted. Sherlock stared at the floor resolutely, refusing to meet John's gaze. John forced his mouth to function. "How long have you felt this way?"

Sherlock didn't answer; he didn't need to: the tension in his shoulders was sufficient.

"Sherlock, look at me," John commanded. Sherlock blinked several times in rapid succession, then locked eyes with John. John took a deep breath. "How long have you been"—he choked—" _you know_." A pause. "Answer me." There was an urgent tone in his voice that hadn't been present before.

Sherlock still refused to respond. Under any other circumstances, John would have been delighted to have a quiet moment to sort out his thoughts, but right now, he would have given anything for Sherlock to just _open his mouth and speak_.

" _Goddamn it_ , Sherlock!" John yelled, not realizing that he had raised his voice until Sherlock flinched. John winced. "Sorry. Will you please, _just once_ , be honest with me? How long have you been in love with me?" John asked, and there it was—out in the open. There was no taking it back, no way of returning to the way things were.

Something shifted in Sherlock's eyes—a sort of determination filled them, along with something familiar, something John has long struggled to name because it we such an un-Sherlockian emotion, but now recognized it exactly for what it was.

Resignation.

"Since the 30th of January, 2010," his flatmate said calmly. His voice was clipped, his words precise, like it hurt him to utter every word he spoke.

John blinked. He mulled this over for a few seconds before replying, "But we met on the 29th."

It came out quieter than he intended. Judging by Sherlock's keen stare, he hadn't missed it.

"I know," Sherlock replied, and there it was again: the resignation he experienced, certain beyond doubt that his feelings would never be returned, and the way he adjusted to the fact like it was somehow okay, like it was something he was used to, something he deserved.

Something in John rebelled at that thought because it was simply _not true_. It was heartbreaking in a way that unsettled John.

He didn't know what to say, so he settled on, “Then why did you— before— I mean—" He found that he couldn't properly formulate his question.

Sherlock bit his lip, looking away from John once again. "My love for you weakens me," he told John. "You are my weakness, my blind spot, and I want to protect myself but I cannot, and I _hate it_."

“ _Don't_ ,” John's voice came out harsher than intended, resulting in a wince. “You are the smartest person I've known—and yes, that includes your brother—but you can be so infuriatingly ignorant in certain matters.” He flashed Sherlock a weak yet genuine smile.

Sherlock's face twisted into an expression of confusion. “What are you saying?” he said softly.

Yes, what was he saying? John frowned thoughtfully. What did he feel?

He honestly didn't know. He appreciated the irony in how everybody claimed that Sherlock was a virtual machine, impossible to read; each time, John wanted to call bullshit on that because he could understand Sherlock clear as day, often better than he understood himself.

He assumed that it was the same for Sherlock. Then again, it wasn't as if John had any privacy anyway, considering how often Sherlock went through his supposedly private effects. Sherlock always knew when he went on dates; if said dates resulted in anything; the password to John's computer; even where John kept his porn (he even watched it once, _in front of John_ , only to comment on its dullness and honestly, what was the point of it?). In short, every aspect of his life contained Sherlock Holmes.

Another _oh._ A revelation hit him for the second time this day, lifting the metaphorical veil from his eyes. It was a disconcerting feeling, as though the clouds in his mind disappeared and he was, for the first time, able to see the blue sky above. The clarity was overwhelming, in equal parts heartbreaking and breathtakingly stunning.

Good, how had he not seen this before? He supposed that there was something to Sherlock's insistence that John's mind was excruciatingly slow.

He made as if to grab Sherlock's hand, but Sherlock jerked away from him, as if John's touch had burned him.

“I don't need your pity, John,” Sherlock said harshly.

John shook his head. “This isn't pity, you idiot,” he replied zealously. “This is me realizing that I love you. That I am _in love_ with you.” He couldn't quite keep a smile off his face.

Sherlock snorted. “Even if that were true, which I very much doubt, considering the highly questionable timing,” he began, “you should not choose me. You deserve so much better than myself.” Sherlock's face was paler than usual. “You deserve sincerity, loyalty, affection… And you have… needs," he hesitated, "that I will be unable to fulfill. Most of your needs, actually."

“Maybe.” John shrugged. He attempted a smile. “But that's not what I want.”

“What?” Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows in confusion. “But—you wouldn't—“

John offered his hand. “Go ahead, Sherlock,” he urged. “See for yourself. Take my pulse.”

Sherlock did as John asked. His eyes snapped up to meet John's, disbelief evident in every fiber of his being. John squeezed Sherlock's hand in reassurance. “You are—“ Sherlock could not finish the sentence.

“I am‚” John confirmed, somehow conveying the concept without words.

He leaned forward; Sherlock knew, or suspected, what John was about to do, but found himself rooted to the spot, unable to move, as John gently pressed his lips against Sherlock's. Sherlock's lips were dry, and impossibly _soft_. The kiss didn't feel electrifying, as people often described their first kisses, nor was it life-changing. Nevertheless, was everything John had never realized he needed. He drunk it in like a parched man, watching with satisfaction as Sherlock's pupils dilated, and his lips parted slightly.

Sherlock stared at him with wide, shiny eyes, unresponsive at first. John's heart swelled at the sight of Sherlock, so vulnerable, and the knowledge that he was the one to have caused this. John pulled back. “You know, this is usually the moment when people kiss back,” he said, voice slightly scolding.

Sherlock managed a scoff, though the aloof effect he was aiming for was ruined by a small sniff. “People are boring.”

“All people?” John asked, a smile adorning his lips.

Sherlock shook his head. He smiled—genuinely _smiled—_ and John felt his knees go weak. He truly was an idiot for not realizing this earlier. “No, not you,” he assured John. “Never you. Well,” he tilted his head, contemplating, “sometimes you, when you insist I need to eat or sleep or take better care of myself. But that's okay; we can't all be interesting all the time.”

“You manage it,” he pointed out.

“Well, I'm me,” Sherlock said, as if it explained everything.

To his surprise, John found that it did.

The moment was interrupted by Sherlock's phone ringing. Sherlock reluctantly picked it up. When he saw the caller, he rolled his eyes with irritation. “Mycroft,” he explained to John in much the same voice one would say ‘taxes’ or ‘comic sans’.

“Go on, answer it,” John motioned to the phone.

Sherlock wrinkled his nose.

“Sherlock, it's your _brother,_ ” John repeated, as if that was the deciding factor.

“All the more reason not to answer,” Sherlock argued.

“If you don't pick up, I'll pick up,” John threatened. “It's not like he won't call me if you don't answer your goddamn phone.”

Sherlock grimaced but obligingly lifted the phone to his ear. “What do you _need_ , Mycroft?”

“I believe congratulations are in order,” Mycroft's voice sounded smooth even over the phone.

Sherlock scowled. “Do you have anything interesting to contribute?”

“Simply checking on you, dear brother,” Mycroft replied smugly. “Also, Gregory seems to have a case for you.”

“ _Gregory?_ ”

Mycroft heaved a vexed sigh. “Detective Inspector Lestrade.”

“Why do you call him Gregory? I thought his name was Jeff,” Sherlock frowned.

It was John's turn to roll his eyes. “You know full well that his name’s Greg,” he whispered furiously. Sherlock smirked silently.

“It doesn't concern you,” Mycroft said dismissively.

“Why are you sleeping with Lestrade?”

“Why are you sleeping with Dr Watson?” Mycroft shot back.

“I'm _not_. You know that,” Sherlock said wearily.

“Ah, yes. The Virgin, in the words of the late Irene Adler,” Mycroft said snidely. “It's not healthy, you know.”

Sherlock glared at nothing in particular. “It wouldn't be healthy if I tried to force myself, either.”

John frowned. “What's he saying?” he demanded.

Sherlock waved him off. John held out a hand. Sherlock and John had a brief staring contest, after which Sherlock handed John his cellphone. “Let me just say this: you are _creepy_ , even for a Holmes. Stop being a jerk to your brother,” John said, then, ignoring Mycroft's vehement denial, ended the call.

He turned to Sherlock to give him back his phone, but froze. Sherlock was looking at him as though he'd hung the stars themselves. “What?” John asked a little defensively.

“I have never seen anyone treat Mycroft like that,” Sherlock said with a hint of awe. “Apart from me, that is,” he reached for his phone with one hand, putting it back on the table, but didn't let go of John's hand. John was perfectly fine with that.

John smiled. “Well, I'd say it's about time someone did. Now, what did Mycroft actually want?”

Sherlock fell back onto the couch dramatically. “Lestrade has a case for me.”

“And?” John asked pointedly.

“ _And_ ,” Sherlock said, “if he wants my help, he can come here himself. I don’t take orders from my brother.”

John snorted. “Of course. Speaking of orders,” he pulled out his phone, “what do you think about Indian?”

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They settled into a comfortable rhythm. Not much changed; John was surprised by how unsurprised he was. Sherlock still left body parts in the fridge, and John still told him off for that. He still kept the flat about as tidy as a Augean stable, which made John feel just a little like Hercules when he managed to clean it.

_(“When was the last time you hoovered your bedroom?” John scowled, looking around in distaste._

_Sherlock shrugged. “About the time we got the snake.”_

_“You mean the snake_ carcass _,” John emphasized._

_Sherlock merely shrugged.)_

Sherlock still insulted Donovan and Anderson; he still offered backhanded compliments to Lestrade. John secretly found it adorable, in a bizarre sort of way, but he would rather parade around Baker Street naked than admit it.

Sherlock did pay more attention to Ms Hudson though, making an effort to take her out to dinner at least once a week. (If one had to be entirely truthful, Sherlock put in a reminder in his phone to remind him, but John rather thought it was the thought that counted.)

If Lestrade knew about the change in their relationship, he didn’t mention it.

And if John planted a kiss on Sherlock’s cheek in the morning, or Sherlock cuddled up with John after a particularly exhausting case—well, it nobody’s business but their own.

**Author's Note:**

> I couldn't help myself. What do you think? Feel free to correct me if you spot anything weird ;)


End file.
